


101 Nights

by hannah_jpg



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage Turned Love Match, F/M, Kudos to Me, Lovers to Friends, Oh and hey! I gave Imrahil a living wife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-04-26 22:11:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14411598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/hannah_jpg
Summary: Lothíriel strives to know the stranger she married. But such a thing is difficult when he only comes to her once every seven nights...





	1. The First Night

_1st October 3021 T.A., Edoras_

Lothíriel was too curious to be nervous.

Tucked up in a great bed; covered in warm furs and with velvet draperies hanging from intricately carved oaken bedsteads, her eyes darted around the chamber. She was captivated by what she saw. Thick woven rugs of wool covered the cold stone-flagged floor, an enormous hearth where a cheery fire glowed and sparked, warming the room from the autumn winds outside. There were tapestries on the wall, but in the scant light from the fire she could see no details upon them. A washstand by the door, a wooden table with straight-backed chairs by the curtained window, and by the fire two plush chairs, looking recently stuffed and neat. A few carved trunks—she had not counted how many—dotted the walls and the foot of the bed. Were it not for the draperies above the bed she might see the oak-beamed ceiling, but she had caught sight when she had been undressed and prepared for bed by the Rohirric maid. She knew an iron-wrought chandelier hung, with a dozen or two new wax candles standing proudly in it, but none were lit. Not that night, anyway.

Lothíriel shivered, drawing the thick covers up her chest. The nightdress the maid had brought out was seeming awfully thin, compared to the brisk change in season she had experienced during their ride from Minas Tirith to Edoras. But its purpose was not for sleeping; not that night, anyway.

She should have been more tired. The wedding and celebrations which had begun at noon and were likely still carrying on in the streets of the city would have worn her out any other time. But the new experiences, these new surroundings which engrossed her so had filled her veins with extraneous energy. That, and the niggling reminder that her stranger of a husband would be joining her soon. But soon he would not be a stranger; not in that sense, at least. And not after that night, anyway.

To busy her mind and prevent herself from becoming nervous, Lothíriel wondered idly where her parents and brother would be now. As she had been removed from the wedding feast early to prepare for bed, they had likely lingered at the festivities. Would her mother and father still be dancing? Had Amrothos succeeded in charming the Lord Erkenbrand's lovely daughter? Had Erchirion gone to bed early to escape the noise and chaos, as he had threatened? Had Elphir taken note of Lord Elfhelm's disinterest and finally ceased to speak of sea-winds and swan-roads?

And anyway, how long  _had_  it been since she had left the feast? Where was her husband? Was it part of the tradition to leave the bride alone for such a long time? It seemed a terribly unfair thing—

The latch of the door lifted with warning, echoing in the silent chamber, and Lothíriel half-jumped from where she sat. Quickly she lowered her eyes from the immense form of her husband as he entered noiselessly, shutting the door behind him. The lock slid home, and she shivered.

His steps made almost no sound at all, and in her imagination Lothíriel saw the King of Rohan pausing at a chair. There was a rustle of fabric—did he remove his green velvet cape? There was a  _flump_ , and no more. Then more quiet steps, and the splashing of water at the washstand. Did he wash his hands and face, and she had done to rid herself of the sticky sweat of the drawn-out ceremony and the hours of feasting?

Then the steps came closer to her—her heart began to thrum in her chest, and almost against her will, Lothíriel's eyes flitted upwards to rest upon her new husband.

Well. There he was. Not much changed since she had left the feast; he was still tall, still fair-haired, still bearded, and still as grave as ever. His eyes were in shadow, and she could not fathom the expression in them. A painful moment passed, and then he asked in his deep, resonating voice,

"May I?"

Wordlessly Lothíriel nodded, clasping her shaking hands together beneath the covers. He reached out; tentatively, slowly—and brushed loose curls from where they had fallen over her shoulder. She drew a shuddering breath to feel the rough pads of his fingers against her bare skin. The King opened his mouth as if to speak, but the words were turned to an awkward cough, and he turned away.

Lothíriel stared down at the furs, fully aware as he sat at the end of the bed. He was removing his boots, and then his stockings and his tunic—

 _Now_  she was nervous.

Slowly the covers were peeled away from her, and the cooler air outside of them brushed against her barely-clad skin, and she began to shiver. But a moment later he was there, and she felt comforting and disconcerting heat from his own bare skin radiating towards her as he came so near. Her heart was pounding out of her breast, and bravely she dragged her eyes upwards once more to meet his.

The King's face was very near to hers, and she could see the precise shade of green his eyes were, and she saw the uncertainty in his expression. Lothíriel licked her lips, her throat going quite dry as she tried not to think of his large, warm, and solid arms around her, effectively trapping her from escape. But she had no desire to escape—it would only delay the inevitable, and her curiosity both of this man and the oft-whispered of  _wedding night_. And anyway, he was warm, and the air was not.

Slowly he lifted a hand, easily supporting his own weight on one arm as again he touched the ends of her hair, but now he tangled his fingers in her tresses, his eyes flitting over her hair, her face. Her lips. She licked them again, wondering why she could not quite breathe.

"My wife," the King said, and his voice was hoarse. Lothíriel tried to force a smile, but her lips would not obey.

"My lord," she murmured in a croak as his brows drew together. Curse her dry throat!

"I would that you call me Éomer."

"I would like to." Then Lothíriel found that she  _could_  smile. The light in his eyes softened, and somehow the grim line of his mouth was looking less frightening. He could be a handsome man, if he smiled.

"Lothíriel," he said, and before she could speak his lips descended on hers and her breath swallowed in his mouth. There was a gasp of surprise caught in her throat, and her eyes shut of their own accord. She was too aware of the sensations every else to see properly—and it was dim in the chamber, anyway. She could feel his beard and moustache around her lips, and while disconcerting at first, it was not unpleasant.

Then his hands found her waist, and she was shifted upon the pillows until she lay on her back and her nightdress bunched awkwardly around her legs. She grasped his arms, to keep some semblance of hanging on, and as her lips parted he deepened the kiss, and all reason was thrown away.

Waves of mysterious heat were spreading from her belly; she felt her stomach turn with aching pleasure as she involuntary arched beneath him, wanting more—of what? She did not know. He was lifting the hem of her shift, exposing more of her skin to the air and causing more shivers.

The King—Éomer, she would now think of him—broke away from her then. His breathing was ragged, but not quite as much as hers; Lothíriel gulped in air, feeling dizzy and strange all over. She hardly noticed that he had pulled the nightgown over her head and tossed it away. But then there was a silent moment, and she lifted her hands as if to cover herself, suddenly wary of being exposed.

"Should I not have removed it?" His question was abrupt in the tense air around them, and Lothíriel gazed up into his shadowed, enigmatic face. No emotion was betrayed.

"N—no, it is quite alright," she said. "I do not mind—that is, I only—er…I was surprised, that is all."

Éomer blinked down at her, his brows creasing slightly. But then he gave a brief nod of his head, and he began kissing her again—she decided she quite liked that!—and she felt his knees nudging her legs apart.

She returned her hold to his arms once more, lifting her head to kiss him back more fiercely and remembering what her mother had told her.  _If you are afraid, it will hurt. If you trust him, he will ensure that you are comfortable, and that you are happy…_

That tenuous strand of hope, of yearning happiness for a future with a man she barely knew, was what she held onto as his fingers found the jointure of her legs. She half-jolted away from him at first touch, but it was not as unpleasant as she might have thought—indeed, it was  _quite_  nice after a moment or two. A softy, breathy moan escaped her lips, and she felt an answering groan from that broad chest of his.

Éomer's lips moved to her jaw, trailing kisses to her ear and then to her throat. Every spot tingled, and Lothíriel arched beneath him, swept away by the ebbing and flowing sensations of her own body. She had never felt  _this_  before; she wondered if she had always simply been a dormant being, waiting for a husband to awaken her to pleasures she never knew, to new feelings and aching desires… His opposite hand was caressing her breast; tenderly, gently. It was like striking a candle, she thought dimly—before, she had been devoid of light and warmth, and with Éomer's simple touches she was suddenly aflame. Her moans grew louder; she did not care to stop them, nor could she had she tried. Everything was overwhelming!

But Lothíriel was not completely distracted, nor blind to her husband. Éomer's arms had stiffened beneath her hands, and his hot breath on her skin was becoming shaky and uncontrolled. Then his fingers drew away from her, leaving her wanting more  _so_ badly she thought she might perish. He was taking several measured, deep breaths as he lifted his head, gazing down at her with an inscrutable expression.

"My wife," he said again, and then she felt his full weight upon her body. Every bit of her felt so wonderful, so tingling and warm and aching for him and whatever he could give her.

Which was quite a lot.

There was only a small amount of pain; Lothíriel had been mostly assured of this by her mother. And with the trust she had given Éomer, he was returning in gentleness to her—he was slow at first, as she adjusted to him within and between and above her. Then the strangeness was gone, the pain was gone—and she was only left with increasing pleasure as she moved her hips intuitively with his. Her hands had drifted down his back, and her fingers pressed into his hard, rippling flesh.

Éomer's mouth was on hers again, kissing her deeply as his pace quickened. Lothíriel was pushed into the pillows, and she welcomed the sensation of languid sensuality. It was growing difficult to breathe, and her heart was positively racing—a hundred feelings, so new and so marvelous, overtook her, and her cry was swallowed by her husband. A moment later and he tore his lips from hers, burying his face into her neck with a grunting groan. Then he slowed, and stopped.

Lothíriel felt as though she were glowing. The pleasure still hummed through her veins, and absently she trailed her fingers upwards on Éomer's back as she smiled lazily to herself, utterly content. Well, if this was making love, then she would enjoy being married  _very_  much.

The shyness between them was somehow gone—or so she thought, until a moment later when Éomer lifted his head and gently began to unwind his limbs from hers. She was not quite ready to lose his warmth, but lacked the courage to protest. He did not meet her eyes. Then he was tucking the covers back over her, swinging his legs over the side of the bed with his head turned away.

She bit her lip, aware that the magic between them was growing faint. Timidly she reached out a hand to touch his bare shoulder, but before she could touch him he stood, and she drew her hand back quickly.

"If you are more comfortable, I will sleep elsewhere." His voice was level again, there was no indication of emotion of what had just happened. Lothíriel felt a rending within her breast, and she did not know what to say. She lowered her gaze from his naked body, despite very much wanting to see him as he went about gathering his clothing.

"Elsewhere?" she asked in a small voice.

"There is a bench in my study."

"Oh. Well…if—if you like."

A pause. Then footsteps padding away, the swing of a door and a thud as it shut.

And she was left alone.


	2. The Seventh Night

_8 October 3021 T.A., Edoras_

Lothíriel dampened the cloth in the wash water, giving a woeful sniffle as she wrung it out. It was cool, thankfully, and brought much-needed relief to her tear-stained cheeks. Carefully she shuttered away the gaping ache in her breast.

It had been a painful day; she had farewelled her family outside Meduseld as they began their journey back to Dol Amroth. They had lingered as long as they could without tempting fate into bringing an early snowstorm. But each day grew colder, and it was time for her to end her life with her family and to don the mantle of Queen of Rohan.

Already the thought twisted her heart with loneliness.

Éomer had stood beside her to make his own farewells, speaking longest with his sister in a low voice. As they had stood on the terrace to watch her family ride away, he had held her arm as if in comfort. A small gesture, but it had been enough—the sorrow and tears had not overwhelmed her until she returned to her own chamber seeking privacy.

The sun was now long set, and she had likely missed supper in the great hall. She did not  _think_  anyone would view her badly for it; Lothíriel was already well-acquainted enough with the staff to know them to be friendly people, inclined to like their new queen despite her constant mangling of their language. In fact, she wondered if they liked her better for that—her stammering always led to gales of amusement, but oddly, they never made her feel embarrassed—the women she had met were as quick to offer instruction and insight and a kind word as they were to share a laugh. It was because of their kindness, of her being adopted into the daily routine of Meduseld without so much of a blink of an eye, that Lothíriel was confident that she could be content here.

She was feeling refreshed, and neatly draped the damp cloth over the edge of the table. Then she poured herself a cup of water, drinking as if to replenish all the tears she had shed.

There. Much better.

Really, it was not so bad. There would be many letters, and many opportunities to return to Gondor to see her family and for them to visit her in Edoras. She liked Edoras already, she liked the people, she liked their king—

What she saw of him, anyway.

Lothíriel's brows creased thoughtfully as she glided over to a small table which faced the wall, where a silver-gilded mirror hung. It had been a wedding gift from her cousin, and absently she gazed into it as she untied the knot at the end of her plait.

She had barely seen Éomer since their wedding night, and spoken to him exactly twice. The first time had been the morning after their wedding, when he had appeared as she was dressing herself. He had stood awkwardly in the doorway from his study, already fully-dressed himself, and posed a formal inquiry of her well-being. After she'd assured him she was well, he had given a clipped nod and departed the room at once.

The second time they had happened upon each other in a corridor. Lothíriel had been in the company of the housekeeper, being shown all the rooms and told of many details towards the running of Meduseld (some of which she had already forgotten). Éomer had paused in surprise to see them, but he had given a curt bow to her, lifting her hand for a brief kiss upon her knuckles. She had blushed, of course. The housekeeper had looked away meaningfully. And Éomer had asked in a quiet voice if she was well. Lothíriel had said yes. It was not a lie, and he had left quickly.

Even that morning, when he had touched her arm and she had felt a slight easing of her sadness to have him near her, he had said nothing.

Lothíriel did not understand him. She  _wanted_ to; at least she thought she did—but the man was nigh on unknowable. She had always heard from her brothers that he was a man of few words, which she knew now to be completely true. That did not bother her, as her own shyness usually kept her own tongue still.

But  _really_! To see him more than a few times in a sennight would be preferable! He had not even come to her bed since that first night, still opting to sleep in his adjoining study, and that baffled her completely. After all the things  _she_  had felt, had he been so unsatisfied? Did he not wish to be with her? It was an arranged match, to be sure—but to only make love on their wedding night and resume chastity afterwards? She did not understand. Not one whit.

She combed her fingers through her loose hair, shaking it out with a sigh. Then she picked up an ivory-handed brush, and began to methodically draw it through her tresses.

A sudden knock at the door startled her. Her heart pounding, Lothíriel called, "Enter!"

To her surprise, it was not the housekeeper, as she might have expected—but Éomer. His face was solemn (no surprise there), and he strode in after a silent moment, closing the door behind him.

Her heart did not resume its normal beating.

"I wished to ensure that you are well," Éomer said.

Lothíriel smiled. Would he ever speak of anything else to her than her wellbeing? "I am well. I thank you." She watched his tall form in the flickering light from the hearth fire. His shoulders were rigid, and his expression level. But as she watched, his fingers started to curl into fists before he loosened them, taking a breath.

"I—" He paused, and swallowed, his eyes glittering in the dim light. Lothíriel blinked in confusion, waiting for him to continue. Then breaking the awkward silence, he said, "May I come to your bed tonight?"

Her stomach turned with delicious nerves. Barely keeping her voice from shaking, she said, "Yes."

Another moment. Éomer opened his mouth, and asked, "Are you ready…now? If not, I can leave—"

"I am ready," Lothíriel said quickly.

If she had any discernment, she guessed he was relieved. He strode to her, taking her clammy hands and bringing her to her feet. Her knees were shaking, and she gazed up into his face, feeling uncertain. He drew her hair to her back, and with his eyes fastened downward, he began to unlace the front of her fur vest.

Lothíriel felt a flash of amusement. He was so purposeful! If she knew anything about her husband as yet, it was that he did everything with determination, without questioning. He might hesitate before the fact, but once he acted, he did not.

Éomer pushed the fur vest from her shoulders, catching it and placing it on her chair. Her breath was growing rather short; as if knowing that he was there, that he was going to make love to her again, her body was already beginning to respond—there was a tightening in her breasts, and between her legs.

His removing of her frock was just as methodical, and she was left in her corset and chemise. This appeared to present a problem to him, for he did hesitate then. Lothíriel held back a smile, and tugged on the ties of her corset. Éomer turned away from her, doffing his own vest and tunic

She was left shivering in her shift and stockings, and she crossed her arms in front of her chest, wishing that he was not standing between her and the hearth. He must have noticed her shaking, for his eyes flitted back to her with concern. Then he was there, picking her up like a child in his strong arms, nearly giving her a heart attack—and he was carrying her to the neatly made bed.

The furs swallowed her, and towering over the bed, Éomer ran his hands upwards on her legs to untie the knot of her stockings. Lothíriel was positively trembling with his hot fingers upon her bare skin, and she could do nothing but stare up at him; but his solemn eyes were focused on his task. Slowly, tantalizingly so—he rolled each stocking down her thighs, over her knees, down her calves and past her ankle to uncover her feet—

Well! If  _he_  wasn't enjoying this,  _she_  certainly was!

But her impression of him was mistaken—for when he met her eyes again, there was light there. Eagerness? Desire? Inhibition, perhaps. She did not care—it was enough.

Lothíriel responded to him more readily this time; she knew better what was happening, after all. Bravely she explored his unfamiliar body with her hands—the hard planes of his chest, the rippling muscles of his back, his golden hair, his beard—softer than she expected. Éomer did not appear to be bothered by her touching, either, for he brought her body to life—glorious, passionate life—as meticulously and tenderly as he had on their wedding night.

She was moaning for his lips, and he kissed her deeply as their bodies moved together as if they were made to do so. Lothíriel could think of very little for the sensations overpowering her reason, but she did think that there was more to this man that what he said. For though he spoke very little, there were other ways of expressing oneself…

Lothíriel was drowsy when it was over, feeling too content and warm to question when Éomer rose from the bed. Dimly she thought she did not wish him to leave, but the covers he had drawn to her shoulders once more lulled her into sleepiness. It had been a long, gloomy day, after all. She closed her eyes to listen to the comforting cracks of the fire as she heard him throw an extra log into the hearth.

The touch some time later was so gentle she thought that perhaps she had dreamed it—warm fingers on her forehead, brushing away her loose hair. She gave a sleepy smile, in her dreaming thinking it was her father or someone equally dear.

The next time she opened her eyes, it was morning, and she was alone.


	3. The Eighteenth Night

_19 October 3019 T.A., Edoras_

Éomer had evidently made up his mind to see her every seventh night, for he did so without any deviation. Lothíriel was never unwilling, but she did wonder why her husband set himself into patterns so…determinedly. And after the third instance he came to her bed and left afterwards, she lay awake, alone in the great bed of the king's chamber (though could it be the king's chamber without the king in it?). The lovemaking had been very nice, as she was growing to expect, but it left her wondering.

It was difficult—nay, impossible—to reconcile their easy, passionate nights together with days when they barely saw each other and rarer yet—exchanged words.

Was this to be the remainder of her life?

She did not want this. At least, she did not want this to be  _all_. Her days were shaping into successes, satisfying for what she did for Meduseld and Edoras and the good she could do. But an empty bed six nights out of seven was no reward.

The morning following their third lovemaking, Éomer departed Edoras on a patrol to the Westfold. Lothíriel dutifully gave to him the parting cup outside Meduseld, speaking the traditional Rohirric words of farewell as he drank. What she _really_  wished to say was lodged somewhere between her heart and her throat, and she did not know the Rohirric words for that, anyway. But when he had returned the goblet to her, there had been an expression in his eyes as they held hers longer than usual…something that made her feel cozy and sensual all over, and to wish he would remove his armor and carry her to bed again.

She had smiled and watched him ride away.

It did not take many more hours of contemplation to decide that she wanted more from Éomer than a few exchanged pleasantries and rare (though excellent) lovemaking. It was not the sort of marriage she had imagined for herself—watching her own father and mother remain deeply in love throughout their lives had built an expectation. Lothíriel wanted to be just as happy. So her marriage had been arranged—it hardly mattered. If she put in the effort, she felt confident that she and Éomer could be perfectly happy as well. He was her only family now; she had no one else to speak to as an equal.

The patrol was a short one, and Éomer returned two evenings afterwards. Lothíriel felt undeniably jittery as she watched him climb the steps to Meduseld, the warm goblet of mead keeping her fingers from freezing in the cold evening air. To her surprise, when he glanced at her face there was a softening of his lips—a smile! She had earned a smile! Lothíriel's voice wavered as she spoke (mangled, to be more accurate) the words of return, and gave to him the mead.

"Thank you," Éomer said, and astonishing her, he added, "Home is a welcome sight at the end of a weary road."

Her steps bounded as she walked with Éomer into Meduseld and through the corridors. There was food for the returning soldiers, but Lothíriel had arranged that a meal would be delivered for Éomer to their private chambers. After a patrol and the company of so many people,  _she_  would want solace and quiet.

The hearth fire was bright and warm, and the smell of stew inviting. Upon their entrance, she thought she saw a flicker of surprise in Éomer's eyes, but she could not be quite sure. He said nothing, and after the door was shut, Lothíriel tentatively asked,

"May I assist you in removing your armor?"

He was definitely surprised at this. Éomer turned slightly towards her, and after a moment of consideration he said, "Do you know how?"

"Of course; I have done the same for my brothers and father. I do not mind," she added quickly, to answer any concerns he might have of propriety or of what a queen should or should not be doing.

Éomer gave a curt nod, and then obligingly bend down slightly so that she could begin untying the knots of his breastplate and jerkin.

It was slow, awkward work, but she did not mind, and she did not think he minded, either. He was quiet, as per usual, but the set of his shoulders relaxed to have their weight removed. Lothíriel piled his armor neatly in a corner, knowing that it would be taken away and cared for by someone in the morning. For now, Éomer winced and rolled his shoulder, and shyly she tried to smooth out the wrinkles of his tunic.

"Thank you," he said.

"There is supper," Lothíriel told him in a rush, backing away a pace and gesturing needlessly to the small table where it had been left. "I—I thought—"

"Thank you, again."

She dared to sit with him at the table as he ate, though she had eaten hours earlier. She could not attempt conversation while he was thus involved, though she did absorb the sight of him with interest. He was more unkempt than she was used to seeing him; his hair tied back messily and his beard a bit ragged. There was a smear of dirt beneath his eye.

Presently he finished, and with a sigh pressed his fingers into his shoulder.

"I thank you again for your care," he said. "Lothíriel…" Éomer paused, then gave a slow blink before continuing, "You are doing admirably as queen."

Her cheeks flushed with heat.

"You are spoken of in the city with great respect. Everyone likes you. I…want you to know that your efforts are not unnoticed, and very appreciated."

There was a lump in her throat. "Thank you," Lothíriel said in a whisper.

"I am not one for speeches, as I am sure you have noticed," he said, and was there a hint of humor in his voice? "But I would that you know that I approve of everything you do."

 _Really_? she wanted to ask. The level expression on his face said nothing of approval or appreciation. But Lothíriel knew Éomer not to lie, and a sense of relief filled her breast. He was being truthful, of course—he approved of her! That was a compliment not to be taken lightly. But she could only blink at him, as again he rubbed his shoulder with a wince.

"If you are sore," Lothíriel said, her heart beating fast for nerves as she stumbled over her words, "You may sleep in the bed tonight; you will be more comfortable here than on the bench in your study."

Éomer glanced up at her, his eyes shadowed with hesitation and confusion. "You are kind," he said awkwardly after a moment. "But I would put your comfort before my own."

 _Her_  comfort? What in Arda did that have to do with anything?

After another moment Éomer stood. "Good night, Lothíriel," he said, and without any more delay he left through the door to his study.

* * *

_23rd October 3019 T.A., Edoras_

The next seventh night came.

Lothíriel was prepared, shivering with anticipation despite the lingering doubt from the night of his return. And then he was there with her, and there was surprise in his eyes when he drew back the covers of the bed to find her already undressed. She flushed—had she been too forward?—but the surprise darkened to desire, at least as she was coming to understand the expressions in his eyes. He dipped his head to place a chaste kiss on her lips, leaving her wanting, before he straightened to snuff out the candles she had purposefully left burning on the bedside table.

"No—" she said at once, reaching out to touch his arm. He paused, gazing down at her. Nerves clenching her belly, Lothíriel licked her lips before attempting to explain. "I—I…I want to see you," she said in a timid whisper. "It—it is always so dim, and…" She trailed off, feeling awkward.

"If you wish it," Éomer said, and he left the candles burning as he made haste to remove his clothing.

Well,  _that_  was easier than she expected.

Lothíriel did not take her eyes from watching her husband uncover herself, not that night. It was odd to think that those parts of his body which she was growing quite acquainted with through the touch of her hands, were the same ones looking so strange to her in the flickering light. She had seen few naked men in her life, and certainly none quite like Éomer. Her face was flushing hot as she stared, biting her lip.

Her brothers were slender and lean, plenty strong but retaining some grace of movement. Éomer was broad; rugged almost—from the long hair hanging in a tail down his back to his beard, from the breadth and width of his shoulders and arms and the thick legs like tree trunks, and to the fine, fair hair across his chest and darkening at his navel— _this_  was a different sort of man entirely. But she could not admire him any less; and anyway, it seemed that the sheer largeness of him, especially compared to her own slim figure, was at least part of the reason her heart quickened in his presence. And then there was the most foreign part of him, which she had felt many times but never studied closely. Of course she had no reference for  _that_ , but all things considered—she was disposed to like every part of him.

Lothíriel dragged her eyes back up to Éomer's face, and saw with surprise emotion rippling across it. His eyes were darkened with—with hunger? For he, too, was gazing at her in the light from the candles. There were twitches shuddering up and down his body, as if he were holding himself in check—from what? She did not understand him. But the desire to still flamed within her.

"May I?" he asked, and his voice was hoarse.

"Please."

She had to admire his control, for despite the hunger in his eyes he was as gentle with her as ever. It was considerate of him, she thought, but not  _entirely_  necessary. She was becoming more accustomed to love making, and it was unlikely to hurt her. But perhaps he did not know…

It was done rather hastily that night, and Lothíriel was sure that only a few minutes passed from when he had joined her in the bed from when he withdrew to perch on the end, prepared to leave. She was still breathing heavily, still throbbing with jolts of fulfilled pleasure. His hair covered his face, and she wished desperately to see him. What was he thinking?

"Good night, Lothíriel," he said, and gathering his clothing he was gone through the door without waiting for response.

Ah! What a frustrating man! Lothíriel swung herself out of bed, fetching the nightgown the maid had left laid out upon a chair and wrenching it over her head. Was Éomer so obtuse that he did not sense her hints that she  _wanted_  him, more than merely every seventh evening? She wanted his company! She wanted to  _know_  him.

As she tucked herself into bed, shielded from the chill autumn air around her with furs and blankets, Lothíriel had a sudden thought: Éomer had agreed when she asked him to leave the candles burning. Indeed, he had not shown a whit of reluctance, and with the way he had looked upon her…had he perhaps wished it, too? But never done so himself, for fear of…offending her? It was perfectly reasonable to her that due to the nature of their arranged match, he might be hesitant to act in a way which might offend her.

Well! If that was all, she had simply to tell him.


	4. The Twenty-Third Night

_24 October 3021 T.A., Edoras_

Lothíriel tried to concentrate on the chemise she was mending, but her fingers were clumsy and her thoughts did not comply. She was waiting, none too patiently, and in the quiet of the king's chamber her mind was quick to worry.

At supper that night she had sat beside Éomer in the great hall, as per usual, but had deviated from their normal interactions: she dared to ask him if she could speak to him that evening.

He had taken a moment to respond, but agreed with no other sign of reluctance. Lothíriel could not help wondering  _now_  if she had been too bold, too demanding. She comforted herself thinking that other wives did not have to ask their husbands for time. She did not think Éomer was  _so_  involved in his own matters that he  _wished_  to avoid her. He had always shown willingness and consideration towards her…surely that would extend to her queries.

At last the soft knock came, and Lothíriel bade him enter. Éomer entered with his usual impassive self, and she gestured for him to sit in the chair across from her. He did.

Lothíriel wished desperately to be able to speak more easily with him. But nothing of value would come without both practice and growing pains, and setting her needle in the chemise to lace her fingers together, too-aware of his glittering gaze upon her face, she took a breath.

"Éomer," she said. "I do not know you well at all."

He blinked. And then there was a shadow of a smile. Her heart lightened at once—she had half-worried he would take offense! But evidently he had not, for his reply was mild, "Nor I you, Lothíriel. 'Tis a hazard of allowing one's father or counsellors choosing one's match."

Lothíriel lifted her chin in agreement. Cautiously, hoping for a positive reaction to this as well, she said, "But I would rather we not live as strangers for the remainder of our lives."

Here Éomer's brow creased slightly. But not in anger, she thought. "I understand," he said after a moment. "I…confess I agree."

Oh, what relief! Lothíriel's lips turned upwards in a smile. Oh—were his ears turning red? How odd. And his fingers clenched upon the plush armrest. But she could not understand, at least not yet. "Would you—" she began to ask, and the words lodged in her throat. No! She mustn't be afraid. She steeled herself and asked in a rush, "Would you keep my company in the evenings?" Then to explain her reasoning, for she wanted him to understand her, "I…am sometimes lonely."

He thought for a moment, and then gave a curt nod. "I would be honored to keep your company," he said. "And I am sorry you are lonely. I have never wished that."

She flushed warmly, managing a smile. "I am not lonely often," she clarified. "That is, my days are busy enough, and I have made many friends. 'Tis only the evenings."

Éomer's eyes were still upon her face. There was expression in them—softness, kindness. And another hint of a smile. "Shall we begin tonight?" he asked.

"Yes, please." Suddenly her nerves returned, having eased at her husband's clear willingness to oblige her. Somehow, in choosing to request his company, she had not quite considered what it would mean to have his discomfiting presence  _every_  evening, and very near at hand. For when he returned from a brief visit from his study with a stack of letters, she realized just how close the chairs were in front of the hearth—their knees were nearly touching.

There was silence. But it was a different silence; there was a vast difference between an empty chamber around her and another person's attendance. It was easier to pick up her mending again, and her heart and mind calmer as she began to stitch together a small tear in the hem.

Occasionally there was a flutter of parchment as Éomer finished a letter, folded it, and opened a new one. He said nothing, but from the warmth occasionally coming to her face, Lothíriel guessed his eyes drifted away from her letters and to  _her_  every so often. And when she was sure he was not looking at  _her_ , she allowed her gaze to lift to him.

Somehow she recalled her observations of his body the previous night, and her face grew hot and her fingers shook around her needle. Only five more nights until they would be together again…

Sometime later Éomer folded the last of the letters, and the quiet in the chamber shifted. Lothíriel had finished mending her chemise, and was now embroidering a—she did not know quite what. A scarf. Yes, a scarf.

"Good night," he said, standing with his letters tucked under his arm. She glanced up to see, with bemusement, Éomer formally bowing to her. "I will retire now. I thank you for your company." Then he paused, and after a moment said, "It was nice."

Lothíriel blinked at him, and responded with a smile and her own, "Good night." He hastened away to his study, and the door was shut.

Oh! Oh! Such success and such failure. Well, perhaps he was more comfortable away from her. That thought brought an ache to her heart, but she quenched it with determination.

* * *

After that night, Éomer came every evening with his own tasks and sat with her in front of the hearth. As she had already known of him, he rarely deviated from a routine, doggedly following through with what he promised. He sometimes read reports or letters, often greased his boots, and occasionally sharpening or polishing his impressive store of knives or his sword.

Lothíriel, for her part, kept herself occupied with mending or embroidery, reading, or bringing over a small desk to pen letters to her family. In his company, these things were less wearisome, and the empty hours of the evenings passed more quickly, even if they barely spoke. But slowly their exchanges of pleasantries were growing; a few sentences more each night, and those were less awkward than they had been at first.

In fact, the fourth evening of their companionship, emboldened by the easing of tension between them, Lothíriel dared to ask why Éomer sharpened his own blades. "For my brothers have always given such tasks to their squires," she explained in a hurry, feeling uncertain as his green eyes rose from his task to rest upon her. He did not pause, dipping a rag into polish and rubbing it carefully onto the small knife he held.

"In Rohan it is considered ill fortune to have another care for one's weapons," Éomer explained in his deep, slow voice.

"Ah," she said, feeling foolish.

His brows lifted slightly, and he asked mildly, "Why do you mend your own clothing? My sister has never done so herself, and I would not surmise that a trueborn princess would."

"Oh—well, because of my mother," Lothíriel said, her cheeks growing warm. "She taught me from a young age that it is important to keep one's hands busy with meaningful work, whether one is a king or a farmer. My brothers were taught to make repairs on their ships; my father has always been his own scribe, and my mother insisted upon mending our clothing herself."

His gaze was still upon her, and the corners of his mouth were tilting upwards slightly. Instead of fearing she was speaking too much, Lothíriel added with a small smile,

"Anyway—it has made me conscientious of my own actions. As I repair my own clothing, I am more careful not to tear out a seam or cause any tears."

This earned her a chuckle, and she flushed with pleasure as Éomer turned his attention back to his knife. "Éowyn might benefit from such experience," he said thoughtfully.

Lothíriel could think of nothing to say to this, but allowed that this conversation was quite an improvement between them.

The next seventh night came[HC1] , six days after that first evening they spent together in companionship. It began in front of the hearth: Éomer greasing his boots and Lothíriel reading with very little focus. But only perhaps a half-hour passed before he placed his boots by the hearth, and capping the bottle of grease he used. She looked up curiously—he usually spent more time on his task—and she wondered, she hoped—oh, she hoped!

"Lothíriel…" he began.

She offered him a smile, which was growing easier to do. And the lines in his face were not as grim as usual. "Yes?" she prompted.

"Er—if you like…it, ah—well, tonight…"

Lothíriel kept her smile from broadening at his blundering; how could the man speak so determinedly about his sword but so hesitantly to her? She marked her place in her book, sitting primly on the edge of her chair to give him her full attention. Éomer blinked at this movement, and she wondered if he had nearly flinched away from her. But why? Was she so frightening? Her smile faded as she watched him clasp his hands together.

"Yes, I would like to," she decided to say, wishing he could be less stiff! Was he still uncomfortable with her? Even  _she_ , with her natural shyness, felt less awkward around him as she had been.

It was the right thing to say; her instinct had been correct. Immediately Éomer's lips curved into a smile, and she saw with a thrill the expression in his eyes. An expression he no longer tried to hide from her…an expressing of desires which made her heart race.

He drew her to her feet, and the book slid from her fingers to land heavily upon the ground. She did not care, for he was lowering his head, and he was kissing her—

However tentative they were speaking with each other,  _this,_  at least, required no words. And Lothíriel was sure they understood each other fairly well.

Later she lay in bed, content and languid and feeling cozy all over. Éomer was slower to leave the bed that night, but she did not doubt that he would not stray from his routine of retiring to his study. At last he rose with a barely-disguised sigh, and impulsively she reached out a hand to grasp his.

Surprised, he turned to her, and his eyes were wary.

"Éomer," she began. Then stopped. What could she say?

When she did not continue, he gave to her a fond smile, and gently patted her hand before letting it go.

"Good night, Lothíriel," he said. And that was the end of that night.

Not three days later, she woke to find that her menses had begun in the night, and confusion began to trouble her thoughts. Was she disappointed or relieved? Disappointed that she was not with child when she knew that bearing an heir was of fair importance to her role as queen? Relieved that at least for now Éomer would not forsake her, for an heir must be had…

That night [HC2] she slouched in her chair, gazing at the fire and absorbed in her own thoughts. A torn handkerchief was in her lap, all but forgotten with the needle poking almost painfully into her finger. The scraping of the stone on Éomer's sword, slowly, methodically, and evenly, filled her ears but not unpleasantly, for though she did not usually like the sound, it meant that he was with her.

The scraping paused. She did not notice, and a moment later a low voice broke through the silence,

"You are quiet."

Lothíriel shifted in her seat, drawn away from the bright flames of the fire and blinking in the sudden darkness away from it. Éomer was gazing at her intently, concern marring his brow. He had never inquired of her in this manner before…bewildered, she could only stare back with her cheeks growing warm.

"You are quiet," he repeated, more loudly this time. "Are you well?"

"Well enough," Lothíriel said absently. She twirled the needle in her fingers, her eyes drifting away from him again…then she shook herself, deciding it would be for the best if she told him plainly. So she did: "I am not pregnant, Éomer."

Now  _he_  was looking entirely confused, but only for a moment. Then his expression stilled into its normal gravity. "Very well," he said. And he began sharpening his sword again, and irritation spurred Lothíriel into speaking again.

"Are you not disappointed?" she asked. Surely he must be!

Éomer's movements paused again, and he glanced up at her. "Are you?" he returned, cautiously, curiously.

"I do not know!" Lothíriel said in agony. "Ought I to be? I hardly know what I should or should not be feeling—oh! I sometimes wish that someone could tell me how to feel, how to go on…" She trailed off awkwardly, noticing her husband's expression growing quite alarmed at her outburst. Lothíriel flushed; she was not one given to such starts, and she did not know where it had come from.

After a moment he spoke. "You may decide if you are disappointed or not. No one else can tell you how to feel."

"And what of you? What think you of me?" she asked again. "Am I still doing marvelously as queen, as you told me once, despite that I am not with child?"

Éomer's head tilted slightly as he studied her. The sharpening stone was limp in his hand. "Yes," he said. "For there is more to being queen than bearing a child."

"—Ah…oh." That particular point had not crossed Lothíriel's mind that day, but he  _was_  correct. Suitably ashamed, she managed an apologetic smile.

Suddenly he smiled back, and her heart nearly studded to a halt at such brilliance—he had never smiled so broadly at her before! Indeed, she had never seen it. He was utterly transformed, handsome beyond measure, and her hand fluttered to her breast as if to calm her now-racing heart as heat suffused her face.

"My parents were wed three years afore I was born. It is simply the way of nature, sometimes," he told her. "I do not mean to tell you that you should  _not_  worry, for your feelings are your own, but I would that you understand that I am patient, and willing to try to conceive as long as you are."

Lothíriel could barely breathe. Something had lodged itself in her throat in her astonishment at his speaking so plainly! This was the longest speech she had ever heard from his lips. She wondered what he would say if she told him that she wished to try to conceive that very moment. For his smile, though softening, was still mightily handsome.

"Th—thank you for telling me," she managed to croak.

"It is my pleasure." His eyes held hers for a moment more, and then he returned to sharpening his blade in silence.

But that was quite alright, for Lothíriel had  _much_  to think about.

* * *

_The Thirty-Sixth Night  
6 November 3021 T.A., Edoras_

The next seventh night ended with Lothíriel shivering in the furs and blankets. Usually they kept her warm enough, but that night the air was piercingly cold. Even the extra logs Éomer had thrown onto the fire an hour or so earlier was not quite enough. After they had lain together, Lothíriel had been quick to fetch a woolen nightdress and thick stockings, as to preserve some of Éomer's warmth with her by keeping it close to her skin.

He was slower to dress, and if she were not mistaking—and she was growing to sense his feelings rather well—he was bemused by her. She tucked herself back into still-warm bed, warming her hands between her legs as watched Éomer pull his tunic over his head. She would have rather keep the view, but after all, it  _was_  cold, even if he did not appear to mind it as much as she.

Having had more practice telling Éomer exactly how she felt and what she needed, Lothíriel spoke without preamble. "I am cold," she said to him.

"I gathered that." There was a twitch of humor around his lips. Oh! How could he be so amused by this? She glared as he crossed the chamber to open one of the large trunks, producing about three more thick woolen blankets.

Oh! He was impossible!

Éomer was gently tucking them around her, for which she was suitably grateful, but more so annoyed for his obliviousness to her wanting him to sleep beside her in the bed. The blankets did help a mite, but she would have preferred  _his_  warmth.

Lothíriel managed a smile despite that, and thanked him politely. Then to her surprise, he touched her face with his fingers, lingering there. He bent down a placed a kiss upon her forehead, and she was too astonished to be irritated any longer. Even when he departed to his study, she could only stare up at the draperies of the bed with wide eyes.

Impulsive affection? That was certainly new!

In her breast her heart was thumping along irregularly. Perhaps her efforts were not as futile as they seemed at times. Oh, oh dear—she had never  _asked_  him to sleep with her, had she? Blast! No wonder he was unwilling to cross that boundary. But she was too cold to leave the bed that night, and instead as she drifted off to sleep she resolved to tell him plainly how exactly she wanted him.

How, exactly, she wanted him led to many interesting thoughts, and she fell asleep smiling.


	5. The Thirty-Eighth Night

_8 November 3021 T.A., Edoras_

Lothíriel lingered in the hot bath, absorbing the warmth through all her limbs. It was the first hour all day she had been warm everywhere—she had gone riding in the morning, despite the weather, on an errand with Éomer.

It had been a point of discussion between them a few evenings earlier. She had been bold enough to ask what else she might do as queen to fulfill her duties. He had thought long about this, and finally said that she might accompany him on business near to Edoras. It so happened that such an opportunity had occurred that morning, and Lothíriel had donned her riding clothes in eagerness to see her husband for longer than a few evening hours.

It had been quite a good experience, too; they rode two hours west to where the king's horses were raised on a farm near the mountains. The ride had been lovely; the views spectacular and the air fresh despite the chill. It was the first time Lothíriel had ridden since her arrival in Edoras, and it had filled her soul in a way she did not realize had been lacking. Things were easier between her and Éomer, too, for when she had glanced at him she saw that he was smiling at her, and she flushed when she looked away, and her heart fluttered.

So tired was she that Lothíriel did not realize how late it was; when the maid had departed it had been too early to light candles, but now with only the hearth fire lighting the chamber, it was dim, and her bathwater was growing cold. Idly she considered sending for more hot water, but likely Éomer would be there soon, and—

He was there  _now_! The latch of the door lifted after a cursory knock, and he entered, closing the door behind him.

Lothíriel sunk deeper into the bath, the water tickling her chin as she stared at him in surprise. Éomer was fiddling with the cuff of his tunic, and when he glanced up at her, he was visibly taken aback, and his ears reddened.

"I apologize," he said at once. "I did not realize—"

"It is alright!" Lothíriel was quick to assure him, and she even smiled as she added, "Éomer, you  _have_  seen me without clothing before. Do not be embarrassed." It was rather brave of her to speak thusly, but it appeared to console him—for Éomer's expression relaxed into a smile.

"Very well. I will retire early tonight, as you are otherwise occupied."

"No!" She sat forward, sloshing water over the sides of the bathtub but not caring. At her exclamation Éomer paused. "Stay with me," Lothíriel finished lamely, feeling her cheeks flush. There was an awkward silence following this, and after a moment he nodded slowly.

"If you wish," he said.

"I do wish," Lothíriel said. "And more than, that, I—I wish—"

No, she was not brave enough to speak  _all_  her desires aloud. But Éomer, considerate as always, noted her hesitation. He strode towards her, picking up one her hands from the rim of the bathtub, unheeding towards the water he splashed about.

"You wish what?" he prompted. "I would give it to you, if I could."

Oh, he certainly could! Lothíriel's flushed deepened, and she swallowed. Now, how could she phrase this in such a way that she not offend him, or sound like a complete dolt? "Éomer," she tried. "Éomer, I want—I want you to make love to me. Tonight, or now…"  _Every night is more like it,_  she thought to herself.

"Tonight?" he asked, his brows lifting in surprise. "But it is not—"

"The schedule is yours, not mine," she said, her voice growing louder with her confidence. She had only to tell him plainly, and he had proved himself so obliging… "I do not complain, that is," Lothíriel added hastily, worried for the slight frown of his lips. "But I… _I_  would have more of you than once every sennight."

Without a word Éomer crouched beside the tub, bringing her hand to his lips. She stared at him, the green depths of his eyes flickering intensely in the light from the fire. Heat flared in her belly. "I would be honored to," he said.

Lothíriel controlled her grimace, but some of her emotion must have shown, for Éomer's brows pinched together. "I am not asking you to do your duty," she said bluntly. "I  _want_  you, for more than just begetting an heir, and I—I want you to want me, too."

There! She said it aloud. How long had this thought tormented her, tantalized her? And now he knew.

The expression on his face had stilled, and for an agonizing moment Lothíriel feared that she  _had_  offended him. But when he spoke again, his voice was rough, breaking as he said, "I do. I do want you. Lothíriel, my wife—" And he had grasped her face in his hands, kissing her fiercely and sloshing more water around.

She clung to him, the wakening of her body immediate at his touch. His hands moved to her damp shoulders, to her back, to her waist—and she was lifted from the bath, shivering in the air as he set her standing on the ground, his lips never leaving hers. But then he did leave her, and she clasped her arms to her chest to preserve  _some_  warmth. Éomer picked up a drying cloth from in front of the hearth, and without hesitation he began to dry her skin. Even with the cloth between them, she could feel the heat of his hands. The roughness of the cloth with that heat upon her skin aroused her, more than she thought possible, and her breathing began to grow ragged.

Éomer crouched in front of her, sliding the cloth up and down her legs. Did he see that they were shaking? She could barely stand—

The cloth was tossed away, but his hands were still there, caressing her legs upwards. His head lifted, his eyes so intense that Lothíriel could barely swallow. His hands curved with her hips, her waist…then his head was dipping between her legs, and—

Oh!  _Oh!_

She tangled her fingers in his hair as her eyes fluttered shut, for some anchor to her surroundings. The pleasure was bearing her away, and in her eagerness to feel him nearer her knee hooked 'round his shoulder, arching herself towards him. He did not appear to mind.

If he had not been holding her upright, Lothíriel was sure she would have fallen over, for the languid desire causing her to go limp. She was gasping now, and after a moment she moaned her husband's name rather loudly. Had he locked the door? Oh, dear—would anyone hear her?

Éomer drew away from her, his hands still clasping her hips as he kissed upwards; her navel, her belly, the cleft between her breasts, and each breast in turn. Lothíriel wound her arms about his neck as he stood, and she felt his arousal pressing into her stomach. He was kissing along her throat, and she whimpered—then her jaw, her cheek, her lips— Then his fingers pressed into the flesh of her buttocks, and she was lifted into the air. Instinctively she wrapped her legs around his hips, and their lips were not parted. There was a deep, growling groan in his chest; she could feel the vibrations even through his tunic, and her stomach turned with delicious pleasure.

The only discomfort, as he laid her in the bed, was her wet hair beneath her. As Éomer began to doff his clothing rather clumsily, Lothíriel sat forward to plait back her hair, uncaring how it looked as long as it did not lessen her pleasure. She saw with bemusement her husband tangling himself in his tunic, and when he was free from it she saw that his hands were shaking slightly. Was that  _her_  doing?

She sat upon her knees at the edge of the bed, and tentatively reached out a hand to draw him towards her. Obediently he came, gazing down at her, and Lothíriel smiled. Then her fingers found the laces of his breeches, and feeling far steadier in her burgeoning confidence, she made short work of them. She slid her hands across that dark hair, that smooth, tanned skin, so  _taunt_! She hesitated, then pushed his breeches downward as far as she could reach, but that was enough—Éomer stumbled slightly as he finished the job, tossing them away without looking, for his eyes were upon her, drinking her in with those unfathomably green depths—and she felt drunken, indeed.

His skin was hot to the touch as she felt his chest, the muscles tightening as he crawled over her. He was kissing her again, ferociously and fervently, and she was pushed back onto the bed. Oh, he was caressing her breast,  _oh_ , she really liked when he did that—and then he broke the kiss to taste her breasts, to savor them, and she moaned aloud with the fiery ecstasy of it.

But her senses would not be overcome. Placing her hands on his broad shoulders, Lothíriel lifted him from her body. He was loathe to release her, but obliged, and his eyes were darkened with passion as he stared down at her, his breath panting.

Need she say anything? Or could she simply  _show_  him what she wanted? Probably either would do—but she chose the latter. Lothíriel sat upwards, awkwardly untangling herself as she pushed Éomer onto his back, swinging one leg over his hips.

"Lothíriel…" he murmured. "You needn't do anything you do not wish; I am more than pleased with—"

"Hush," she commanded, and he did so. There was a twitch about his lips, and Lothíriel smiled down at him. Then his hands were tracing her curves, and she sighed, placing her hands over his roving ones. This was quite nice—lovemaking was  _always_  nice, in her experience, but variety was not amiss. She remembered Éomer's mouth between her legs, and she felt a pink flush in her cheeks—but she saved that thought carefully for later, and attempted to mount him.

It was somewhat awkward for a moment, for she had never done so before—but Éomer was patient, and after a few grunts of discomfort from him she was sitting in a way comfortable for them both. Tentatively she grinded her hips across his, and she heard him let out a long, shuddering breath. He was clenching her hips with his fingers, and she felt encouraged to continue. Then he thrust upwards, and a strangled cry caught in her throat—ah! Now  _that_  was quite nice!

They found their rhythm rather quickly, then again; their bodies had always responded to each other  _extremely_  well. Lothíriel liked to see the flitting passion in Éomer's face, and she liked that  _she_  had caused that passion. He desired her, and now she knew it; he always controlled himself so carefully, it seemed a wonder that he release that control this night.

Her legs clenched 'round his hips as she moved faster, gasping for breath. Éomer's hands trailed back up to her breasts, his eyes boring into hers. Her heart was hammering in her breast, her muscles were throbbing, tightening; her hips jerked, and she moaned aloud as her eyes flitted shut. She could not move any longer; she drank in the pleasure coursing through her veins, savoring it with a languid sigh.

"Lothíriel…?"

She forced her eyes open, gazing down at her husband. He was looking tense; almost feverish. "Did you—?" he asked.

"Y—yes," she said, breathing deeply to calm herself. "Ah—did you—?"

"No."

Lothíriel felt a rending within her breast. Had Éomer not liked that?  _She_  had! Her brows furrowed in disappointment, but to her utmost astonishment, he not only smiled, but  _laughed!_

He was laughing?

"Why do you frown?" he asked after a moment, still smiling with his eyes crinkling at the corners, and there was a note in his voice she had never heard before—playfulness? Éomer could be playful?

Her words were cautious. "Because…you did not enjoy that quite like I did."

"Oh, my dear wife—I enjoyed that  _very_  much, I assure you." And the dark light in his eyes smoldered, his expression nothing short of ravenous. He was grinning ferally, and her heartbeat quickened again. "I was only too intent on watching  _you_  to give any thought to myself," Éomer added.

"Ah—oh." Lothíriel felt her cheeks warm yet again. He had been watching her? She had not really noticed, and it made her skin prickle self-consciously. Then to her surprise, his hands lifted to her face, cradling it tenderly as he stroked her cheeks.

"You are beautiful when you blush," he said.

Her flush deepened, and his smile turned crooked.

"May we make love again?" Éomer asked after a moment, and there was a strain in his voice. "I—I am willing to oblige by your desires, but if we do not...I am going to be very uncomfortable."

Lothíriel did not understand, but she was more than willing. Flippantly she smiled, and said, "You may make love to me a dozen times tonight, if you wish! Or any night, really."

His fingers stilled where they were tracing the hollow of her throat. There was hesitation in his eyes now, and she added gently,

"I do not lie, Éomer. You are my keenest joy." There! That ought to qualify as speaking plainly.

Indeed, it did. His eyes darkened from hesitation to hunger, and he sat forward, dislodging her awkwardly, but catching her 'round the waist as he swung her onto her back.

Ah! Ah! Lothíriel pulled his face forward so that she could kiss him with all her might, tasting his tongue as her body flared to life once more. He thrust into her at once, and her cry was caught between their lips. Oh, to be given such pleasure  _again_ —she moved with him, urging him on in panting murmurs as she felt his teeth dig into her neck with a groan. She clung to the unyielding, rippling muscles of his back, holding on with all her might, unheeding that she was breaking skin—

His breathing quickened, and she felt his hot breath on her ear as he groaned her name, his hips bucking awkwardly. Hearing  _his_  pleasure peaked her own once more, and she quivered. His movements slowed, and she could feel him inside of her, drawing the last dregs of pleasure from between her lips.

They did not move for several minutes. Éomer was nuzzling her ear—something she decided she quite liked, and leisurely she ran her fingers up and down the planes and ridges of his muscled back. Only the crackling of the fire could be heard now.

Against her will Lothíriel yawned hugely. At once he unwound himself from her, his face pinched with concern.

"No," she murmured. "Stay."  _Stay with me forever_ , she thought hazily, curling up as he drew the covers over her.

"I will." Then Éomer, too, was under the covers, and Lothíriel shifted herself towards him. Willingly he wrapped his strong arms around her, and she was cradled gently as she felt him kiss the top of her still-damp head. Oh, this was  _wonderful_...

For the first time, she did not feel the chill from the waning autumn.


	6. The Thirty-Ninth Night

_8 November 3021 T.A., Edoras_

Lothíriel woke early, stiff and sticky and drowsy. She yawned, stretching out her arms and trying to regain some feeling in them. There was a sleepy protest behind her, and she felt a strong arm tightened around her waist. Éomer! Her mind was growing less hazy, and she could feel the hard planes of his chest pressing into her back. Then his nose on the back of her neck, and he kissed her bare shoulder tenderly.

He should have never slept in his study, that first night. What a terrible habit! She could only hope it was broken permanently.

His hand was stroking downwards on her arm, and he laced his fingers with hers. His lips nibbled her ear, and she giggled. His response was husky.

"Why do you laugh, wife?"

"Because you are tickling me," she said stoutly. "Are you going to allow me to rise for the day, husband of mine, or shall you keep me here forever?"

Éomer's lips were hot in her jaw, and she smiled blissfully as her eyes closed in sheer pleasure. Then he released her, nudging her towards the edge of the bed. Lothíriel pouted, wishing he had not—but he was smiling as he said, "Go on, then!"

It was quite early; the dawn light was barely yellowing as the sun crested through the window. Uncaring that she was entirely naked and the air cold, Lothíriel rose and wandered over to find a covering. She felt Éomer's eyes upon her, and with a secret smile she took her time. There was a groan from the bed.

"Do you do this a-purpose?" he asked with a grumble.

"Oh, aye, I do." Lothíriel gave him a saucy smile, tying a dressing gown 'round her waist. He was still half-buried in the covers, chuckling at her quip.

This new comfort between them was wonderful, amazing, marvelous—could they go on as true husband and wife now? She thought so, and was smiling as she sat at the vanity, picking up a brush. Ergh! The sight in the mirror was frightful—her hair, having been slept on while still wet and not properly combed, was matted to the side of her head, frizzing out in every direction. Oh, dear.

Éomer rose with a sigh, searching out his own clothing as Lothíriel began to untangle her tresses. It was a slow work, and after several frustrating moments she saw her husband appear in the mirror behind her, his expression one of concern.

"Let me," he said. After a startled moment she gave to him the comb, and with gentleness he began to lift her hair and tug the comb through it, much more carefully than herself. It was a pleasant feeling, and she gave a contented sigh.

"I am sorry for this," Éomer said quietly after a moment. "Last night, I…I should have waited long enough for your hair to dry, or to put it back properly so it would not tangle."

"I am not sorry," Lothíriel replied, arching a brow at him in the mirror. "I did not wish to wait, and—and it all perfect." She could not help sighing a little once more, giving a silly smile as her cheeks pinked. To her surprise, Éomer was smiling too, before he returned his eyes to his task.

"Indeed, it was," he said a murmur, and she sensed that he meant more than he said. A glow of happiness warmed in her breast, and the silence between them was peaceful as he continued to comb her hair.

The same glow stayed with her for the remainder of the day, despite the difficulties. She was forced to settle a dispute between two serving-maids, inspect Meduseld's winter stores with the housekeeper, and discuss with the bailiff the repairs needing to be done to the hall before the snows began. Which, he informed her, would be within the fortnight. Lothíriel was less than thrilled at the prospect.

Éomer came to their chambers that night later than usual; she had been writing a few lines of a letter to her mother, but soon gave up. How else could she describe the shift within her marriage other than, " _Éomer and I are doing well"_?

And Lothíriel was tired; the little sleep of the night before and the busy day were weighing down her limbs. She decided to wait for Éomer, anyway, to ensure that he was going to sleep alongside her that night, so she chose a book and settled into her chair with a yawn.

And that was how he found her some time later. Lothíriel was ready with a smile when Éomer approached, and to her happy surprise he first bent to kiss the top of her head, before lowering himself into his chair with a sigh.

"Are you well?" she asked anxiously. His face was worn, but a light sparked in his eyes as he gazed at her.

"Well enough," he said. "I was summoned to the barracks—there was a brawl involving about a half-dozen men."

"Oh—that is terrible. I am sorry."

His answering grin was cast into flickering shadows by the light of the hearth. "It is not your doing, Lothíriel," Éomer said dryly.

She flushed. "I did not think it was. I was merely—"

"I know."

Lothíriel noticed that Éomer had brought nothing with him for the evening. He laced his fingers in front of him, and his eyes did not leave hers. Still he smiled, and that both astonished and comforted her.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"Oh—" Awkwardly she lifted it to the light, to show to him the embossed cover of her book. "It is a saga of Earendil the Mariner. It is one of my favorites—when I young and just learning how to read, I would sometimes read it aloud to my—my brothers." Her throat closed on the last words, and her eyes burned. Lothíriel gave a sniff and looked away, unable to bear the tender care in Éomer's eyes. So she missed her brothers—so would anyone else in her position!

"If you like, you can read to me," he said after a moment. "I have only heard the tale in song."

"Oh—really?" Lothíriel asked thickly, curiosity chasing away her sadness. "This book is quite famous in Gondor; I think everyone I know has read it."

Éomer's brow lifted slightly. "Then you certainly should read it to me. I would not wish to be unable to converse about it with the locals when we next travel south."

 _We_. She quite liked that. Hiding a smile, Lothíriel flipped the pages back to the beginning, sitting forward in her chair. Then she paused, glancing up to see her husband smiling.

"May I sit with you?" she asked in a rush. "I—it would be easier for me, for I would not have to speak so loudly."

"Of course." Éomer settled back in his chair, taking her hand and drawing her to her feet and to his side. Tentatively, she sat upon his knee, and at his large hands guiding her, she settled into his lap with her feet dangling from one armrest, and her head resting against his shoulder. He kept her steady with his arms 'round her waist.

"Perfect," he murmured into her ear. She could not help shivering to feel his hot breath on her skin, but firmly quashed it—she had promised to read to him, and read to him she would.

Éomer was a better listener than any of her brothers—he did not interrupt, he did not stop her to complain of any of the characters, and he did not offer commentary by huffs of indignation or groans of annoyance. He did  _hmm_  into her ear once or twice at parts she thought he liked, and while that did distract her, it was more because of his nearness than his being impolite.

A half-hour later her voice was growing hoarse. Apologetically Lothíriel rose to fetch herself a drink of water, and quietly Éomer held the book until she returned.

"If you wish a rest, I can read," he said.

"I would like that," Lothíriel replied with a flush, and she settled herself into his embrace, allowing her tired eyes to droop shut. She was not paying very much attention to the story—she knew it rather well—but instead she felt the vibrations from his chest and listening to the comfort of his rich, soft voice.

It was not until much later, when she was being tucked into the bed that she realized she must have fallen asleep. But she was too drowsy to care, and as soon as she felt Éomer's weight dip the bed beside her, she shifted close to his warmth, and fell fast asleep.

* * *

It was the start of a new ritual; on the evenings when they had no otherwise important tasks, Lothíriel read aloud until she tired, and then Éomer read in turn. But despite these burgeoning traditions, there was now opportunity for impetuosity—more often now they made love, sometimes before their evening tasks and sometimes afterwards, and still other times foregoing all other business to give their attentions solely to each other. The inhibitions between them were fading away, and Lothíriel learned to make Éomer smile as she wished.

She sometimes wondered at this. For her husband, as much as she was coming to know him, was still a mystery. But she knew that he would not deny any queries of her. She had only to ask.

One night[HC1] , after collapsing into the bed together panting for breath, she decided to inquire of him. It had been a rather tense supper in the great hall, for she had learned that none in the hall could see if her hands happened to roam along Éomer's thigh beneath the table. Barely keeping themselves in check, they had half-run to their chambers, Lothíriel laughing all the while in embarrassment and excitement. They had scarce made it through the door before they were kissing, Éomer yanking up her skirt and her tearing at the ties of his breeches, and she was lifted to straddle his hips and pushed against the wall, her laughter turning to gasping moans.

Evidently he did not fear hurting her any longer.

Damp from perspiration and her cheeks feeling hot, Lothíriel had peeled off the remainder of her clothing afterwards, falling into the chilly bed, which felt wonderful on her prickling skin. Éomer joined her there, smiling broadly and exhibiting no hesitation to hold her close, his own clothing in a pile on the floor next to her own.

"Did we leave supper too hastily, do you think?" Lothíriel asked anxiously, smoothing down his beard with a gentle hand.

"I doubt—"

"Oh,  _dear_ , Éomer I am sorry!" Her interruption startled him into silence. He gave a blink, and feeling a rush of shame, she whispered, "I—I left a mark…on your neck."

Éomer's lips twitched—not the reaction she was expecting. "Is that so?" he asked lightly. "Well, I am sure it will fade within a few days."

"But it will be seen!"

"Is it very visible, do you think?"

"It depends on the collar of your tunic. Oh, dear, I  _am_  sorry." She paused, and then could not help asking, "Will—will you not be embarrassed?" Frowning, Lothíriel tentatively she put her fingers on the blossoming violet bruise below his jaw. He smiled fondly down at her.

"No," he said. "I am not ashamed to have a wife who enjoys my company."

 _That_  was putting it mildly. But it put her worries to rest, and she was able to smile again. "You will likely be teased, I am sure," she said.

"So be it." Éomer brushed this off with a shrug. "I can manage a little teasing." And she did not doubt him. They were quiet for a moment, and the sensation of his warm fingers gently tangling in her hair lulled her. But she stirred herself, unwilling to fall asleep so soon after supper!—and said,

"Éomer…I am very grateful to have your friendship."

He kissed the top of her head in response. "And I yours."

"But I am wondering…" Lothíriel had hoped she might grow less anxious when asking her husband rather personal questions. Perhaps in time, but not that evening. She swallowed. "I would know why…when we wed…you were intent on keeping your distance from me."

Silence met this, but because Éomer continued to stroke her hair with even strokes, she knew she had not affronted him. That was good.

"I thought," he said slowly, after a moment, "That since ours is an arranged match, my new wife would prefer to keep her own company rather than been forced with mine. More often than necessary, that is."

Lothíriel smiled to herself; it was just the sort of thing Éomer would think!

"I wished to give you time and space to adjust to your new life," he continued, surprising her with his voluntary revelation. "I would not have begun our life together with discord, and I determined to allow you to…to set the boundaries between us."

"I see," she said. "Well, I confess—I neither needed nor desired boundaries." Lothíriel felt his arms tighten around her, the breath quite squeezed out of her.

"Oh," was all he said.

"My parents are very loving," she explained further. "From when I was very small, I always wished for that comfort in marriage for myself. And despite that we—we were arranged, I still wished to be happy."

"I want you to be happy." Éomer's words were soft in her ear, and she shivered.

"I am. Truly." And Lothíriel lifted her head to give him a beaming smile, amused to see his ears redden. But his lips relaxed into an answering smile, his fingers gently lifting her chin.

"As am I," he murmured, and kissed her tenderly.

The barriers continued to fall between them.

The snows came, against Lothíriel's wishes, but with Éomer's warmth at night and her increasing joy during the day, she managed it all rather well. Winter seemed to keep nearly everyone indoors, and so her reluctance to leave Meduseld was not noticed. But there were some who went out no matter the weather—Éomer was one of them.

Lothíriel had taken to watching him perform drills with his éored. It was interesting to watch, and she felt that doing so would help her to understand all of him. The drills were not cancelled for snow, and she bundled herself in wool underthings and furs as she sat upon Meduseld's terrace, the glowing braziers by the great oaken doors lending some heat to the frigid air.

She might have admired the beauty of the sloping waves of snow upon all of Edoras, but her eyes could scarce leave her husband. He was easy to see in the seemingly chaos of his éored. It caused a burning within her breast, of pride and attraction, to have such a tall, handsome husband. How fortunate she was!

Nearing noon, the soldiers were dismissed. There was laughter and lingering, for the relief that the drills were completed and they could rest. Squires and stablehands rushed forward to take the horses to their care, but Lothíriel still could not look away from the tallest man, mounting the steps towards Meduseld as he removed his helm, and running his fingers through his mess of hair.

She smiled, and he saw her. He smiled, too.

Éomer paused at where she sat upon a chair, and his eyes were bright and his nose and cheeks red. "I nearly did not recognize you," he said. "Your face is barely peeking through those furs. Are you warm enough, Lothíriel?"

She flushed. "I am grateful that you are quite finished," she said primly. "I might not have lasted another hour."

"Then I must get my wife indoors before she freezes entirely—"

And in his way, he lifted her into his arms despite her squawk of protest, and she was carried into the dim hall without delay.

"Really," Lothíriel huffed. "I can walk—"

"There is no need for you to dampen your cloak. I am already wet, you see—you may keep your neatness of appearance."

Oh, she loved his playfulness! How could he have hidden his humor for so long? She rested her head against his armored shoulder, not because it was comfortable, but because it was his—

He allowed her to remove his armor by the hearth fire in their chambers, and the remainder of his clothing as well. Lothíriel was pink-cheeked, but her indications to him were both obvious and gladly accepted. Despite that it was quite time for the noon meal and despite that he must have been exhausted from his morning drills, he made languid love to her, and she was  _very_  happy.


	7. The Thirty-Ninth Night

_22 December 3021 T.A., Edoras_

Idly Lothíriel tied the ribbon binding her braids together, gazing into the gilded silver mirror but unseeing. Her thoughts were slow and leisurely, despite that she could already hear the noise from the feasting hall. Yuletide was the favorite holiday of Rohan, as Éomer had explained, and by that time she believed him completely. She had been immersed in preparations for the last several days—so busy, in fact, that she felt simply too tired to enjoy it fully.

There was a kiss on the top of her head, and she lifted her chin to smile up at Éomer, who was already smiling down at her.

"I thank you for the skillful work you did mending my breeches," he said. "Your stiches look nicer than the original seam. I shouldn't wonder if I would hire you on as a seamstress, were you not already my queen."

Lothíriel pursed her lips together. "I will try not to be offended," she said severely. "Really, Éomer, what a thing to say!"

But his smile remained as unconcerned as ever. "You are lovely tonight, my wife."

She accepted the compliment, feeling warm all over as she took his hand to rise to her feet. A brief wave of dizziness nearly made her stumble, but she held tight to Éomer's hand.

"Let us go and enjoy the revels," she said. "I am already yearning for sleep."

The hall was hot—hotter than she expected. Lothíriel sent for a fan to be brought to her, but it brought little relief to her flushed cheeks. A fire blazed in the center of the hall with a full boar roasting over it. The scent of grease dripping onto the coals made her stomach turn, but still she smiled and greeted their guests. She remembered everyone's name, and felt quite satisfied.

Supper was a feast: roast boar, breads of rye and barley, pies of meat and fruit and vegetables, all sorts of puddings, cakes, and sweets. With the smell of meat overpowering her senses so, Lothíriel thought it wisest to eat simply, but she found even the bread lodged in her throat uncomfortably. So she simply sat, gazing out at the hall, feeling gratified for the clear enjoyment everyone was having. Éomer was speaking to Lord Erkenbrand on his other side, and Lord Elfhelm was upon Lothíriel's right hand—but he was busy with his meal and she was feeling too shy and too tired to engage him.

If possible, the heat rose. Could it truly be so bitingly cold outside? She had been  _so_  cold even that morning; staying beneath the fur covers of the bed half-asleep until Éomer built up the fire to drive a measure of the chill away.

At last, everyone was fed and watered to their pleasing, and servants hastened to clean the tables, and to move them aside for dancing. Lothíriel was slow to rise from her chair, and only did so with her husband's firm hand upon her own. Again she felt a flash of dizziness when she stood, and a brief throbbing behind her eyes as the light from the torches suddenly pierced them. She must have winced, for Éomer's hands clasped upon her shoulders, and she heard his earnest, quiet voice,

"Are you well?"

He sounded rather far away, and she wondered how that could be? Indeed, why was the dizziness not fading? She squeezed her eyes shut at a roaring and a rushing in her ears, and blackness overtook her.

* * *

A sharp scent made her nose itch. Lothíriel moaned, wishing it would go away—but it did not.

"Ah, she is coming 'round. A simple swoon, sire, just as I said; likely the heat or the excitement of the festivities."

A hand was cradling her face, drawing her back from slipping back into the welcoming oblivion. It was Éomer's hand, of course; she could recognize his touch even as woozy as she was. Despite the throbbing in her head, she forced her eyes open, squinting at the bright light around her. She was in a chamber she did not recognize, on an unfamiliar bed, but Éomer's face, pinched with concern, was next to her—Lothíriel smiled at him, and the set of his mouth relaxed.

"Good evening, my lady!" came a cheery voice. "How are you feeling?"

Another face came into view—a man she knew to be the apothecary. He was an older, kindly man, and she did not feel the least bit shy with him; he reminded her of her Uncle Pargorn, who was dear to her.

"Not entirely well," Lothíriel admitted. "My head is aching something awful."

"Rest and wholesome foods will help that along," the apothecary said. "You were fortunate not to strike your head and injure yourself—my lord king caught you straight up as soon as you went limp and brought you here at once. A very good man to have in distressing times, I am sure of it."

Lothíriel was sure of it, too. While the apothecary prepared a medicine to ease the pain in her head and to help her sleep, Éomer gently assisted her in sitting up on the edge of the cot, slowly enough that she did not faint again. He steadied her with his large hands, and she rested her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes from the bright candles all 'round. He stroked her knuckles with his thumb wordlessly.

She drank the bitter brew, and immediately her limbs felt heavy. The apothecary declared her fit enough to be put to bed, and Éomer lifted her into his arms.

Should she be embarrassed to be carried through Meduseld in her husband's arms? Because in her drowsy, woozy state, she certainly did not feel the least bit embarrassed. Still the festivities continued, but they did not pass through the hall, and thankfully the noise faded.

Éomer tucked her into bed, which welcomed her with ease and softness. Her last conscious thoughts were that the medicine was  _very_  effective, and why in Arda was she so ill?

* * *

 _The Eighty-Third Night  
_ 23 December 3021 T.A., Edoras

Lothíriel woke the following morning with a heavy head and a sour stomach. She assured herself that it was merely from not eating the night before, and when a maid brought a breakfast tray, she forced herself to swallow a few bites of bread.

Éomer was not there; though he had done the courtesy of leaving for her a handwritten note.

 _I did not wish to wake you_ , he wrote,  _for you need your rest. I would not face the wrath of our apothecary for bothering you. If you do not feel well enough, do not bestir yourself from bed. I will see you when I can, likely 'round noon._

The bread promptly reappeared as she retched over the chamber pot.

Ill as she felt, Lothíriel was fully aware of Éomer's distress as he made good upon his promise and came to her during the noon hour. She was lying in bed once more, having drifted off to sleep once or twice in the morning, and vomited thrice despite having nothing in her stomach.

"I have asked around, and no others are ill from the feast last night," Éomer told her, sitting upon the edge of the bed as he tenderly clasped her clammy hand. "I had thought perhaps some of the food might have been bad—but evidently not. Shall I send for the apothecary?"

Lothíriel agreed to this, hoping with all her heart this illness would pass quickly.

But it was not the apothecary who came to her later in the afternoon; it was a tall, stately woman, with iron-grey hair in two braids down her back. She introduced herself as Gifu with a curtsey, and began to ask rapid questions as Lothíriel nervously wound her fingers together.

At last Gifu asked if she might examine her. This was agreed to after only a moment's hesitation. But the woman's hands were gentle, and she only touched Lothíriel's belly briefly before giving a satisfied nod.

"The apothecary was right to send me in his stead," Gifu said. "He can do nothing for this. You are with child, my lady."

Oh— _oh_.

Gifu, admitting herself now to be a midwife, gave Lothíriel a tea to ease her nausea. It helped enormously; within a half-hour, Lothíriel was sitting upright in bed, all smiles and nerves as she ate slices of apple, which thankfully stayed in her stomach. This satisfied the midwife, who advised the tea every morning before eating. She would tell the kitchens to have it prepared for her.

"I will send for my lord king to attend you," Gifu said, and she departed.

Lothíriel was left with her giddy anxieties. She did not know what to say. She hardly knew what to think! Considering the previous conversation she'd had with Éomer all those weeks ago regarding conceiving a child, it seemed most odd that it should happen so suddenly! But she did not regret it. Smiling to herself, she placed a hand on her belly—it felt no different, but everything  _was_  different.

The midwife had evidently told Éomer nothing, for his face was grim when he at last came to her, when the sun was setting through the parted curtains of the window. Lothíriel could see the worry in his face too well, and she was quick to smile at him. His brow softened, just a whit.

"You are feeling better," he stated, taking her hands and sitting beside her upon the bed. "Your color has returned."

"Indeed, I am feeling marvelous," Lothíriel said. "The midwife gave to me a tea, and I have been able to eat."

Éomer blinked. She suppressed a giggle; had he not known Gifu was a midwife? But why would he? Certainly Meduseld had had little need for a midwife in decades. She supposed she could forgive him that ignorance. Gently easing her hands from his, she took one of his large ones and placed it on her belly, where hers had just been—and smiling up at him, Lothíriel said,

"It did not take  _us_  three years."

He appeared too startled to speak. His eyes flitted downwards, and she felt his fingers tense, their heat warm even through her shift. Then he smiled—a broad, beaming smile just for her as he lifted his gaze to meet hers.

"Lothíriel—" he said, his voice breaking, and he lifted his hands to cradle her face, kissing her lips. Her heart fluttered within her breast, but he released her a moment later, lowering his head to press a kiss upon her belly, as well. She bit back a smile; he was utterly endearing! He spanned her belly with his hands, resting his forehead there—and after a moment he lifted his head. He still smiled, and his eyes were shining.

"I am very happy," he said. How characteristic of him to speak so plainly! Lothíriel laughed aloud.

"I am happy, too," she told him. "I thank you for—for this. For—everything."

"It was my pleasure, wife, I assure you."

She flushed at the expression in his eyes. And before he could speak again, Lothíriel hastily voiced a worry of long ago, her only worry  _now_  being delayed understanding between them. "Éomer," she said briskly. "Now that I am pregnant…I need you to know that I still wish you to sleep beside me, and I see no reason for us to cease—cease making love. Whatever it meant to  _you_ , it is more than proliferation to  _me_."

Éomer blinked at this sudden speech, but his lips curled into a smile. "My sentiments align with yours," he said softly. "I will not leave you."

"Good," Lothíriel said, and she was satisfied.

The following days were a haze of intermittent illness and incomparable joy—her emotions felt so tenuous: despairing when the tea did not prevent her vomiting, and the pure peace she had with Éomer in the evenings. Some days she could rise from bed, doing her duties 'round Meduseld with reasonable presence of mind, and other days she lay beside the chamber pot, wrapped in blankets and shivering.

On those days Éomer somehow managed to be with her more often, wiping her sweating brow with a damp cloth or bringing her water and tea to moisten her stinging throat. Lothíriel wondered, if she were ill and he by her side, who was managing Meduseld? But usually she was too fatigued to worry overmuch.

Then one morning she woke with a clearer head, more awake than usual, and rose smiling and began to dress herself. This abrupt change startled Éomer, but he appeared pleased, and did not hesitate to put an inquiry to her.

"We ought to announce your being with child before the gossip does so," he said, pulling on his boots. "Are you well enough to attend supper tonight?"

"I am well enough now," Lothíriel chirped. "Perhaps we ought to announce it at breakfast."

Éomer laughed. "It would be prudent to invite some who do not usually partake of breakfast in Meduseld. If you agree, I can inform the housekeeper, and you may go about without worrying about it."

"Very well," she relented, and he stood to loop an arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She sighed in bliss, smiling up at him. "Anyway, it never feels quite right to plan a feast to celebrate oneself."

Her husband was laughing, and her heart was full.


	8. The One-Hundred and First Night

_10 January 1 F.A., Edoras_

Lothíriel was careful to drink the tea to help her stomach before supper that night. She dressed in the most-forgiving or her formal frocks (for despite her illness, she was decidedly more plump 'round the waist). Éomer's eyes were shining with pride when he took her arm to lead her to the hall.

It was not quite as loud as Yuletide, but the air more excited than usual for supper. Lothíriel guessed, by the glances and smiles their way, that her condition had already been surmised—her absence from regular duty and the midwife's regular attendance would have made it rather obvious. But still, it was proper to announce it all formally, and she allowed Éomer to lead her to the dais, and the hall quieted.

Oh, dear—she had supposed he would speak at the conclusion of the meal. Evidently not.

Éomer's voice resonated through the silent hall easily, and the richness of his voice made her shiver with pleasure. Slightly behind him, Lothíriel stood as tall as she could, which was not as much as she liked.

"My lord and ladies," he said. "We welcome you to this special feast tonight, in honor of the anticipation of a child and heir of Rohan, continuing the House of Eorl."

He certainly did not waste his words! Lothíriel bit back a smile as she heard laughter and calls of good wishes echoed in the hall. Then Éomer turned to her, blinding her with his beaming smile, and his fingers tightened 'round hers.

"And we honor my wife and queen—" he continued, and his voice grew quieter, though it still thrummed through her being. "—whom I love."

Lothíriel felt her cheeks grow warm, and her smile broke through as Éomer's eyes held her captive. The noise around them was growing, but she did not care—she saw only her husband. By the hand he drew her near, and she went to him and he wrapped her in an embrace, uncaring that they were in full view of everyone. Then he was lowering his head, kissing her tenderly, and she understood his every sentiment.

He loved her!

This time, her dizziness was not from the child she carried— _their_  child—but of pure, complete, joy. She wound her arms around his neck, her heart beating from her breast—

Lothíriel's face ached from smiling so much over the course of the evening. Accepting the congratulations of the nobles of Edoras, and the kind words of those she knew within Meduseld, and having Éomer hold her hand throughout the entire night—she was overflowing with happiness. How different this was than those first days after their wedding, when she had dreaded a lonely life forever!

And despite the ache in her cheeks, she was still smiling when she combed her hair out for the night in front of the silver mirror. The hearth was warm, and the light flickered pleasantly in the chamber. Her eyes were distant, full of hopes and dreams as she absently stroked the come through her hair. Éomer was removing his clothing nearby, and she drew comfort from the familiar sound of his moving about the chamber.

After a minute or two she heard him approach, and his fingers drew the loose hair away from her shoulder. Lothíriel bit her lip as he lowered his head, kissing the skin of her neck gently, slowly. Shivers crawled pleasantly down her spine.

"Éomer…" she murmured, her eyes fluttering shut. The pleasure of his touch could not be overstated; it had been many days since she had been well enough to appreciate the full force of his nearness. His warm hands were clasping her arms, and she sighed a little moan. The comb clattered to the table, completely forgotten.

"If you are too ill—" His voice was low in her ear, and she quivered, arching her neck to feel him graze his teeth along her jaw.

"Not too ill." Indeed, the nausea was held at bay. And all the sickness of the last weeks were forgotten as Éomer lifted her into his arms, bearing her to the bed without delay.

Lothíriel was all too pleased to allow her husband to arouse her and please her as he wished—her participation was not equal, but he seemed unconcerned. Their feelings were matched, and that was enough. Nor did the gentle movements did not aggravate any illness, and she was smiling a contented smile when they were finished, tucked together in the bed with nary a word passing between them, for none were needed.

No, that was wrong—words  _were_  needed.

"Éomer," she said softly into his shoulder, her eyes already closed, "I love you, too."

His response was a  _hmm_  of contentment, which she understood to mean that he knew. But after a moment passed, Éomer spoke. "When we wed, Lothíriel, I promised myself that I would give you as much of my heart as you wished."

"Oh?"

"It was a vain promise; I fell quite in love with you without any clear instruction on your part of whether you wished for my love or not." Éomer's hold 'round her tightened. "You know full well that I rarely offer my feelings without prompting. But I sense that it would be wise to tell you plainly, rather than leaving them to be guessed at; for I know  _you_  as well.

"I was certain I loved you that night you told me plainly that you wanted me." His voice was low, his fingers gentle as they tangled in her hair. "Though I suspect my heart was yours long before. Your devotion to me, despite our being strangers; your willingness to become queen to a land you hardly knew. I sensed that you were often uncomfortable around me, and while I feared it stemmed from dislike, I came to know it was merely your own shyness. How grateful I am that you determined to overcome that, that you found  _me_  and  _my_  company to be worth striving for! I have made my own attempts to prove to you my commitment, and if you do not already know, I shall tell you plainly: I do not simply love you out of duty, Lothíriel. I would choose you again a thousand times over, under any circumstances."

Lothíriel's skin was prickling with pleasure at his words—they felt a promise she would treasure forever. She lifted her head from her shoulder, beaming up at him even as her eyes burned with happy tears.

"Oh, Éomer! I have learned to value your plain-speaking more than I thought I ever could. I am sure I could not have loved another as much I feel for you." She paused, and with a crooked smile added, "I shall likely have to tell my father he was quite correct in predicting that we would make a fine match."

"Do," Éomer said, returning her smile. "But I will refrain from offering such compliments to my counsellors, for I do not need them thinking they are wiser than they are. They might attempt to rule over more of my life, and I am quite content now."

She laughed then, and he tucked the blankets tighter around them. Her stomach was feeling a little queasy, but it did not overcome her, and she found peace and rest in the arms of her once-stranger, now-beloved husband.


End file.
